


Internal error

by AmberGoldHoney



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Autism Spectrum, Autistic Sherlock Holmes, Bisexual John Watson, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Good Mary Morstan, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Paternal Greg Lestrade, Post-Reichenbach, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Reflection, Sherlock Holmes is Bad at Feelings, Therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-28
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:41:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22931950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmberGoldHoney/pseuds/AmberGoldHoney
Summary: "Sherlock leaned his head against the back of the sofa, eyes trained to the ceiling as he let himself think. He remembered Mycroft's words, reminding him about John. That he should get better, if not for himself, than for him. Their relationship had never been the healthiest, both greatly lacking in the communication department. But now, with John happily married, it is time to step it up, lest he be left behind, nothing more than a memory in the mind of his brilliant John Watson. "After the close call on the tarmac, Sherlock makes the choice to try and better himself out of fear of losing John even further. As Sherlock works on fixing things, can John bring himself to do the same and build the relationship they should have had all along?
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson, Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This whole scene was taken from House M.D. Watching it made me think about how Sherlock would be in therapy. I apologize for it being OOC.

The room was lit only by the natural light streaming from the open windows, the cool autumn air gently easing the fever that ran through Sherlocks veins. His eyes met those of the only other person in the room as he picked at his cuticles, trying to banish the slow build of anxiety in his stomach. Silence surrounded them, minutes passing slowly before Sherlock finally spoke, his tone sharp and impatient. 

“So how is this supposed to work?” 

The psychiatrist held his gaze, trying to keep the mood light in hopes that the tension in the younger man may fade. Dr Willow Mills. Mycroft chose him personally in the hope that he may be able to get through to Sherlock enough to help. The man was as stubborn as he was determined and immediately upon meeting the man was dead set on helping Sherlock Holmes. Now he just needs Sherlock to want to be helped.

**** “You sit. I sit. We talk.”

“About what?” 

“About whatever you want.” 

Sherlock fell silent again, wanting nothing more than to waltz out of this room and smack his brother upside the head for being such an idiot. Therapy is for stupid people who’s tiny little brains can’t seem to solve their problems on their own, instead making them spend money to spend an hour sitting in a room while someone tells them how to breath.

“You want me to whine about my Brother?” 

He couldn’t hold back the sarcasm in his bite as he spoke, still irritated that Mycroft was dull enough to think this would help. There is nothing wrong with him. **  
**

“Do you want to whine about your brother?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes with a dramatic sigh, going back to subconsciously picking at a hem on his jacket. His eyes were cold, his face stoic as he brought himself to look him in the eye.

“I can tell you about the time I was 5 and my goldfish died.”

“If that’s where you’d like to start.” He couldn’t explain it but the older man's easy going nature and calm tone only irritated Sherlock farther. He wanted a reaction, wanted him to give up before he got the chance to get in his head.    


“I’ve had a billion things happen to me in my life, how am I supposed to know which ones are relevant?”    


“As far as I’m concerned they’re all relevant.” 

They way Willow was looking at him made his blood boil, his “anything goes, it’s all important” attitude bringing forth memories of when he was young, when Mycroft would take care of him when something went wrong, would cling to his every word to try and find something, anything to help his broken baby brother.

“We better get moving, ‘cause this session could take 50 years.”   


“Yes, you are the sum of everything that’s happened to you and yes, some events are more relevant than others but the only way we can figure out which ones are is to talk. So tell me… What’s on your mind? What do you want?” 

‘What do you want?’ His mind spun, images, voices and memories going by so fast it sent him reeling. He dug his palms against his eyes, his elbows resting on his knees. ‘I want John. Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson. I want things to go back to how they were.’ Suddenly his mind went blank, only the words given to him by his brother. 

_ ‘You can return to Baker Street if you would like. I will not stop you. But this is your chance to get better Sherlock. Get better before returning to the real world. We aren’t children anymore, no one is going to try and change you. But I can see how miserable you are brother mine. I have always seen it. I never wanted this and you have made it clear that I cannot help you. Only you can help yourself. It is a choice left to you and you alone. So at least think on it, won’t you? Even if you only try.’  _

Sherlock shook his head, lifting it but keeping his eyes trained to the worn carpet beneath his shiny black shoes. Thin fingers combed through his freshly washed hair as he spoke.   


“... I want to get better… Whatever the hell that means. I’m sick of being miserable.”   


“So you’d like to be happy?” Another eye roll as Sherlock brought his eyes to meet his again.   


“Again with the reflecting- yes. I would like to be happy.”

“Being happy is an excellent goal, not many patients can crystallize what they are hoping to get out of this.”   


“Well I am not like many patients.”   


“So I can see. Now all we have to do is figure out how to get you from here… to happy.”

Willow rose from his seat as he talked, wandering to his desk and pulling out a foil package containing pills, along with a number of papers. Sherlock could feel the panic building at the sight of the pills, taking a deep breath to calm his nerves and remind him that he is no longer a helpless child being forced into unwanted treatments.    


“SSRI’s? That's your genius technique?”

“I don’t think we should ignore any tools that can help. I know you don’t have a problem taking drugs.”   


“To clear my head, help me focus.”   


“Well think of this as being for mental pain, rather than clarity. Both are important.”

That’s what they used to say, say that they wanted to help. That they just wanted to help fix his brain. No matter how much he cried or begged no one would listen. They never cared about helping him, they only cared about one thing. Changing him. “Fixing him”. Sherlock rarely felt such raw emotions but as he looked back on his younger self, pleading for someone to help him he couldn’t help but respond in a soft whisper.    


“... I don’t want to change who I am…”   


“Miserable?” Willow passed him a cup of tea, along with the packet containing two small blue pills. He licked his lips, trying to ease the sudden dryness in his mouth. He didn’t think, couldn’t think as he opened the package and set the pills on his tongue. One quick drink and they were gone. No going back. “You think by taking meds, you’ll lose your edge? Stop making the unique connections that make you a successful detective?”

Sherlock stared at him, studied him. His mind went to Lestrade. The man who saved him, who gave him a new life. The man who only keeps him around to use in times of desperation. Of course he is scared of losing his edge, it is the only thing that gives him purpose, the only thing that keeps the people in his life… well, in his life. 

“... If Van Gogh was your patient would he be satisfied painting houses instead of the starry night?”   


“Van Gogh would still be making inspired paintings of the night sky. Just maybe not from the room of his asylum.”   


“You don’t know that.”   


“I know both his ears would be intact. And I know his life would be better.” Willows eyes never left his, as if he were hoping he could drill his words into Sherlock with his look alone. “I know this doesn’t come naturally to you. But you want my help… Which means you need to trust me.”

Sherlock leaned his head against the back of the sofa, eyes trained to the ceiling as he let himself think. He remembered Mycroft's words, reminding him about John. That he should get better, if not for himself, than for him. Their relationship had never been the healthiest, both greatly lacking in the communication department. But now, with John happily married, it is time to step it up, lest he be left behind, nothing more than a memory in the mind of his brilliant John Watson. 

He finally brought his eyes back to meet Willows, his tongue darting out to run between his lips in a nervous manner. 

“I think I’d like to leave now.” Willows eyes lacked judgment, the man merely nodding. He rose, extending a hand to Sherlock, who shook it gently.

“I do hope you will consider coming back. You deserve to be happy Sherlock.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After isolating himself, Greg decides to stop by.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is kind of a filler chapter that I needed to transition into the next. I also wanted to touch a little bit on Paternal!Lestrade and Autistic!Sherlock. 
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated! Thank you for Spideyxmoriarty for the lovely comment on the first chapter. Hope this helps fill your craving for our lovely autistic detective.

Sherlock sat curled up in his chair that had been angled to face the open window. The sun rose a few hours prior and he remained in this spot as the hours passed, drinking in the fresh air, allowing the cool temperature to redden his cheeks slightly as his tea warmed him from the inside out. His blanket was heavy against his legs, his fingers skimming through an open book which was resting on the armrest. He had been attempting to read but found himself losing interest more frequently than not. 

He rose with a sigh, the blanket falling to the floor as he reached up, stretching his arms and popping his back. It had been about a week since Sherlock had met with Doctor Mills and yet he can’t seem to stop thinking about what was said in that small office. The box of SSRIs remained abandoned on the kitchen counter, standing out against the empty surface. Due to the… nature of his mission, Sherlock had his flat completely cleared out. He had no need for his things where he was going and left it all to John in his will that was left safely in Mycroft's possession.

The boxes remained tucked away, still yet to be unpacked. There was something about the empty flat, cleaned of its personality, of the memories it once held, that made it easier to exist in. Sherlock spared them not a glance as he made his way to the kitchen, squatting down to get on the same level as the small box. His eyes remained glued, as if he was expecting the box to do something. He was startled from his thoughts from a knock at the door, having completely missed the footfall as his company made their way up the stairs.

He rose from his spot and tightened his robe around himself before making his way to the door. He opened it to find Lestrade, his fist still raised and poised to knock again. His face changed to one of empathy as he looked Sherlock over. His hair looks greasy, his full curls looking flat and chaotic. He had stubble growing around his chin and his eyes looked glossier than usual, framed by darkened skin. Sherlock tipped his head in question, prompting Greg to break the silence.

“Can I come in?”   
  
“I thought you already did a drug search.” Sherlock said bitterly, stepping aside to let him in despite the attitude. Greg stepped through and shed his coat, hanging it on the hook beside the door. 

“That's not why I’m here.”   
  
“Then why are you here?” Greg looked hesitant, worry seeping into his veins as he remembered the mindspace in which Sherlock occupied the last time he looked this bad. He took a breath, fully aware of Sherlocks calculating gaze, drinking him in.

“I’m concerned, Sherlock. You are hiding again, and we both know that this is a slippery slope.”   
  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Turning, he made his way over to the sofa and sat, refusing to look at the man still standing in the entryway. Since returning he had lost so much of the control that he spent his life working for. The things that he could once separate so easily, now flooding over him, dragging him down and stealing the air from his lungs. Like now, he wants so badly to deny, to shut himself off but he can’t.

His heart started to race as he shut his eyes, listening to the footsteps that brought Greg closer, knowing when he opened his eyes he would be met with the older man's caring gaze. People shouldn’t care about him.

“William.” That caught his attention, his eyes opening only to meet exactly what he expected. Greg was sitting on his knees before Sherlock, his eyes looking up at him. Submission. Everything about his position is deliberate, chosen specifically to make sure Sherlock knew that he was in complete control of the situation. To make sure he knows that Greg poses no threat. Like one would level themselves to care for a child or a frightened animal. Yet there was no denying that the fluttering in his chest made him feel as such. Greg repeated his names, pulling Sherlock out of his thoughts.

“Why would you think that?” Sherlock tilted his head in confusion, tensing ever so slightly as Greg placed a hand on his knee. “You said that people shouldn’t care about you.” 

Immediately panic filled his chest. He didn’t remember speaking. He wasn’t speaking so what happened? What had brought him to the point where he is losing his connections, to the point where the line between what is real and what is in his mind had become blurred? His eyes remained trained on the man before him as he tried to think about what happened. This doesn’t happen, not to him. In a swift movement he brought his fist down against the fleshy part of his outer thigh with force, his mind still racing. He raised it again but this time it didn’t connect with his leg, instead landing against the open palm of Greg's hand. He bit back a whine, his mind slipping as it spiraled. 

“Sherlock, stop.” Those words brought his mind to a halt, his hand still against Gregs as he flipped it around and wove their fingers together, giving his a tight squeeze. “Hey, it’s okay. Take a deep breath, like this.” He didn’t notice the increase in his respiratory rate, yet as Greg set their hands against his chest and took a deep inhale it became clear just how quickly he was breathing. After that it was easy to follow him, his skin on his keeping him grounded and Greg's quiet counting helping to aid the racing in his mind. After a short while he tilted his head, finally taking his eyes off the man before him, shame running through him. Greg just gave a knowing smile and rose, giving Sherlock an encouraging tug in attempt to get him to stand as well. 

Once the pair were on their feet Greg led them to the kitchen, moving the kettle to the front burner and turning it on. Once he was sure Sherlock wasn’t going to bolt he gently separated their fingers, giving him a reassuring smile the whole time. Once they were apart Sherlock interwoven his own hands, taking a deep breath and gently rocking on the balls of his feet. They stood in silence as the water warmed. The soft clicking of the clock in the sitting room moved to the beat of sherlocks heart, soothing him. He knew when he spoke this time, even if he didn’t mean to.

“That’s what I am.” His voice was quiet, Greg not even sure if it was real. Yet he spared a glance Sherlocks direction. “What?”   
  
“I’m nothing. To anyone. To everyone.” The mix of defeat and acceptance broke whatever remained of Gregs heart. He reached out and grabbed Sherlocks hand, a soft string of ‘no’s finding their way out of his mouth. Sherlock shook his head and pulled his hand away. “You need to leave.”   
  
“Sherlock-”   
  
“Just go. Now Greg.” The way he said his name was the nail in the coffin. He knew he shouldn’t leave, he should stay here. With Sherlock. Yet before he could protest a glass mug went flying past him, shattering against the wall with a loud noise. Sherlock didn’t say another word, just stared at the remains of his favorite mug. Greg bit his lip and nodded, refusing to meet his eye, before grabbing his coat and slipping from the flat. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, one of the main reasons I am writing this is because I have been craving a good fix it fic with Autistic Sherlock. I have found a few but a lot of them seem to OOC or don't really touch on any actual parts of the Autism Spectrum, instead using the term "autism" to just explain Sherlocks cold exterior and trouble with feelings.   
> Which I get, those both can be parts of autism but there is so much more than that. So I will get into it more but I just want to go over what I put in this chapter. I feel like Sherlock would have gotten pretty good at controlling or replacing most of his stereotypes or "stims" but even for those who can they can be hard to control and come out subconsciously in times of stress or other moments and things that impair one mentally. In my headcanon, which is what we are going with so suck it up, Sherlock's main behaviours are 
> 
> Ritualistic tendencies - which is most of the time brushed off as "Sherlock being Sherlock"  
>  Elopement - Which doesn't happen as often as it did when he was young but he still bolts when excited (like on cases) or overwhelmed.  
>  SIB (Self-Injuring Behaviour) - SIB is mostly subconscious and only occurs in situations that take a lot out of him (stress, lack of sleep, fear, high anxiety, etc.) Consists of hitting himself in the leg with open or closed fist and headbanging.  
>  Stereotype - He has gotten good at only doing his stims in private or replacing them all together, but after his time away he has found it harder and harder to "hide" some of these things that are natural to him and bring him comfort. His stereotypes are  
>  Pacing  
>  Rocking  
>  Hand-flapping  
>  Spinning  
>  Throwing objects
> 
> Anyway, I want to make it clear that Sherlocks autism isn't going to be the focus of this fic and is instead just going to be incorporated naturally. For people who have autism it sucks to have people act like that is the only thing about you that counts so I want to treat it like just another part of the story. Mycroft, Greg and Martha are all aware of Sherlocks diagnosis but John will find out in a later chapter.
> 
> Sorry for the longer note, thank you for reading it if you stuck it through. It means a lot.
> 
> Happy readings!


End file.
